And I hate him for it.
I hate that it’s him, of all people, who’s making me feel this type of strange belonging and absolute abandon.
He’s my enemy.
He should be my enemy.
But as he fucks my mouth, uses it, brutalises it, I can’t help asking for more, wanting more.
I would never get on my knees for anyone. It’s a humiliating position and a symbol of weakness, but with him, it doesn’t feel like one.
With him, it feels like a position of power where I’m giving him as much pleasure as he’s giving me.
He says he owns me, but I’m owning him as much as he owns me.
With every thrust into my mouth, he steals a part of me, and I steal a part of him too.
The part he never shows to anyone else.
It’s a shift in dynamics, a play of power. Just because I’m on my knees doesn’t mean I lack power; it only means I’m earning it in a completely different way.
A knock sounds on the door. “Mon chou? I brought Lars’ scones.”
Both of us freeze at Charlotte’s voice — and by freezing, I mean Ronan stops at the back of my throat, keeping me there by my hair.
Black dots form at my peripheral vision due to the lack of oxygen. I struggle for breath, and maybe that’s why the haze doesn’t wither away even with someone else’s presence. I’m still drifting, riding the wave, needing more of it.
“I’ll be right out, Mother.” He sounds normal, or at least a bit normal considering the circumstances. He focuses back on me and whispers in a lust-filled voice. “How do you feel about someone walking in and seeing you this way, all choked with my dick?” I shake my head frantically, but he just smirks. “You want to be my fiancée, but you’re my whore now.” His hold on my hair turns stronger, more controlled. “Made only for me.”
Those words make me lightheaded, and it’s not only because of the lack of air.
The more he speaks to me like that, the wetter I get. The more depraved he becomes, the deeper I fall into his web.
He goes back to thrusting in and out of my mouth, faster and harder this time. He uses my hair to guide me, not allowing me any movement outside of his approval.
I’m a marionette in his hands, a wanton, willing marionette who can’t get enough.
His shoulders become rigid and his head tilts slightly back. I can’t help staring up at his masculine beauty and complete control as he stops powering into my mouth. Something salty hits the back of my throat then drips on my chin, mixing with the drool and tears covering my face.
Ronan grunts, watching me intently, almost as if in a haze himself as he pulls out of my sore mouth. He gathers his cum with his thumb and coats my lips with it, smearing it all over, as if he doesn’t want to miss an inch, doesn’t want to waste a drop.
When he nudges my mouth open, I don’t hesitate to take his thumb inside and suck it clean. He laps his single digit against my tongue, groaning deep in his throat.
The sound does something to me. I feel pride, because I’m the reason behind that. I’m the reason his godlike features crease with satisfaction.
I feel lust, because even after two orgasms, I’m greedy for more. I want his hands all over me again. His strong, lean hands that know how to wrench me out of my self-imposed fortress.
There’s another
emotion I can’t quite pinpoint, one that snaps my shoulders together and makes me want to run and never return.
“Ronan?” Charlotte’s voice comes again.
The spell breaks as he pulls up his boxers and trousers, and just like that, he appears normal, not like someone who just fucked up my entire universe.
He throws me one last quizzical glance and motions for me to stay quiet before he heads to the door.
I remain slouched by the bed, my heart almost beating out of my chest as I watch his back disappearing around the corner.